“No difficulty,” said Adey. “No need to turn out a fire engine. They can be carried on a tender.”
“Right. We run the tender up to the River Gate. The road there’s a dead end. Tell the driver to take the tender about twenty yards along and stop. Then one of the police cars backs in after it, blocking the entrance. The second one stands by. As soon as the cars are in position, run one of the ladders up. There’s a line of barbed wire on top of the wall. You’ll need wire cutters. As soon as the wire’s clear, haul the second ladder over the top and put it down inside.” He looked at the plan. “That should mean that the first men over are just inside the gate. They remove the bars, undo the bolts and open it.”
“Suppose they’ve got some sort of guard on it.”
“If they try to stop you opening the gate,” said Terry, “you can deal with them as you think necessary. It’s only the bloody clerics we’ve got to handle with kid gloves.”
The Chief Constable nodded. The last thing he wanted was to have anyone hurt, but he had got well past the point where he was going to stand any nonsense from people like young Ernie.
“Once the gate’s open, both cars drive in. One goes up to the front door of the Deanery, the other one stays outside the gate as a rear guard.”
Terry noticed that the Chief Constable had started to talk like a soldier. Normally, this irritated him, but on this occasion there was some comfort in it. What was proposed seemed more a military than a police operation.
“As soon as you’ve secured the Dean, drive out with him. Then reverse the process. Bolt and bar the gate, get back over the wall, remove the ladders and return to base.”
“Timing?”
“The later we go, the less people will be about. But we don’t want to drag the old boy out of bed. H-hour ten-thirty. That should be about right.”
At ten o’clock James was sitting with Dora Brookes in the drawing room listening to the wireless. Henry had retired to his room immediately after supper. It had been a silent meal. Dora was tackling her faithful piece of embroidery, but James could tell that her mind was on other things. He had started to read, but could make no sense of the words and had given up.
“Persistent rain in the south and west,” said the wireless, “has already caused serious flooding in many towns, including Salisbury, where the water is already invading the Close, and to a lesser extent in Melchester and at Romsey Abbey. Meteorological experts have pointed out that the contra-effluxion of air currents has produced conditions very similar to those that prevailed in Florence in November 1966, though it is to be hoped that the damage in this case will not be on anything approaching a similar scale.”
James wondered why experts on the wireless should always say things like “the contra-effluxion of air currents” when they meant winds blowing in opposite directions. Dora bundled up her sewing and said, “I’d better go up and see if Henry wants anything.”
James stood up too, switched off the wireless, then returned to his seat and sat in silence. Even the drumming of the rain was shut out by the heavy casements and the thick old-fashioned curtains.
He heard Dora’s footsteps going upstairs and along the passage toward the bedroom at the far end. He knew, with the certainty of foreknowledge, what was going to happen and found himself gripping the arms of the chair he was sitting in, like a patient at a dentist’s waiting to be hurt.
There was a moment of silence and then the footsteps came clattering downstairs fast. They paused, but did not turn toward the drawing room. They went away, along the downstairs passage.
James had not expected this. He got to his feet, opened the door and looked out. Dora was coming back. Her face was white and set.
She said, “He’s gone out. I’d bolted the side door, but it’s unbolted now. He must have gone that way. What can he have been thinking of?”
When James did not answer, she came past him into the drawing room and said, “You were talking to him in his bedroom before dinner. Did he say anything? Did he give you any idea—”
“I’d no idea he was planning to go out.”
Dora seemed to detect the evasion in this answer. She said, “Of course I could see he was worried. It’s been coming on for the last two days. At one time I thought it was the weather. Now I think it must be something else. Something worse.”
Neither of them had sat down. They were standing, facing each other, like people in the presence of a sudden crisis.
He could still find nothing to say. Dora said, more sharply, with an edge of suspicion in her voice now, “You were a long time together. What did you talk about?”
James had opened his mouth to speak, although he had still not the least idea what he could say, when the interruption occurred. The front door bell rang. He went quickly along the passage and opened the door.
It was Amanda. She looked like a creature of the river. Her thin summer coat was clinging to her like a skin, and her eyes peered out from a tangle of hair smeared down over her face.
She said to Dora, who had appeared behind him, “I’ll stop here. If I come in, I’ll ruin your carpet. It’s Daddy. He seems to have disappeared.”
“When?” said James.
“I don’t know. I don’t think he’s been in all evening. I thought one of the vergers might know where he was. They’ve both gone too. Mrs Grey was very worried. There’s a light on in the Cathedral. Do you think they might all be there?”
“We’ll go and see,” said James. He was pulling on his raincoat. He said to Dora, “Don’t worry. I expect we shall find Henry there too,” and then he plunged out into the streaming night. The path to the west door was so slippery that it was better to go hand in hand.
They found Masters on guard inside the west door. He was armed with a pick helve. He said, “You’d better both come in before you get drowned.” He sounded more amused than excited. As he stood by the open door, he added, “Just before you came, I saw two lots of car headlights. I guess they’ve got the River Gate open.”
Neither of them needed to ask what he was talking about.
The only lights in the Cathedral were in the Choir, where the Dean was standing in front of the altar. He, too, seemed cheerful. When they told him about the cars, he said, “So the police have arrived, have they? They’ll be here as soon as they find I’m not in the house. Would you go, James, and tell Grey – you’ll find him at the south door – not to try to keep them out. Amanda, tell Masters the same thing. There’s to be no violence at all. Make sure they understand.”
They both sped off. James found Grey standing inside the door which led out to the cloisters. He stared vacantly at James, but seemed to understand what he was saying.
When James got back to the Choir, the police were coming through the west door, four of them, led by Superintendent Bracher. They advanced steadily, their boots thumping on the stone flags of the aisle. The Dean drew himself up to his full height. James thought, “He really is playing at Becket. He’d like them to kill him at the high altar of his own Cathedral. Only, of course they won’t – they’re not playing to the same script.”
The Dean said, “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Bracher took a piece of paper from his pocket. He had been told what to say and he was not trusting his memory. He said: “Dean Matthew Forrest, I have been instructed to inform you that unless you undertake to stop obstructing the police of this Borough in the execution of their duty, you are to be taken into custody and detained in custody until you give acceptable undertakings to that effect.”
“And suppose I refuse to go with you?”
“Then we shall have to take you, using as little force as is necessary.”
“To lay hands on a clergyman, robed and in his own church, is contrary to Canon Law.”
“I don’t know about Canon Law,” said Bracher stolidly. “I only know about the law of the land.”
“He’s lost,” thought James. “It’s not going to work.” He had a picture of the Dean being h
alf led, half carried down the aisle. It was horrible.
Footsteps came stumbling along the south transept and Grey ran up to the Dean. James thought for a moment that it was a rescue attempt. Then he saw his face.
“You’ve got to come.” His voice was a croak of panic and distress. “It’s Mr Brookes. In the vestry.”
The Dean said, “Pull yourself together, Grey. What are you trying to tell us?”
“He’s dead.”
“I think perhaps this is something you’d better look into, Superintendent. I shan’t run away.”
Bracher hesitated, then nodded to his men to stay behind, said, “You’d better come with me, Doctor,” and strode off quickly. When they reached the vestry, the door was open and the lights were all on. Henry Brookes was sitting exactly as the Archdeacon had sat, slumped in the chair, his head lolling over to one side. It was only too clear that he was dead.
There were two envelopes on the vestry table. Bracher looked down at them without touching them and said, “This one’s for you, Doctor. I think you’d better read it now, if you don’t mind. It might give us some idea what to do next.” He sounded puzzled and angry.
James picked up the envelope. As he did so, he noted that the second one was addressed to the Dean.
The note inside was in Brookes’ handwriting, which betrayed something of the emotions which must have been moving him as he wrote it.
My dear James,
Will you break the news to my wife. She likes you and trusts you. I’ve been trying to think that I’m doing this because the police were going to arrest someone else. They as good as told me so this afternoon. But it was no use. I couldn’t fool myself. I’m doing it because I realise that everything you told me this evening will have to be told to the police tomorrow. I’ve left a full explanation for the Dean. There was some of the nicotine left, so this seemed the easiest way.
“Easy, my God,” said James, looking at the signs all about him of Brookes’ death agony.
Bracher read the letter slowly and then said, “Perhaps you’d better let the Dean have the other one. It may make things a bit clearer.”
He seemed unwilling to touch it. James picked it up. As they went back, Bracher said to Grey, “Lock the door and give me the key.”
In the Choir they found the policemen standing in a group, uncomfortably shuffling their feet. The Dean was on his knees in front of the altar. They also found Canon Humphrey, who had arrived from somewhere. James walked down with him, between the Choir stalls, until they were out of earshot and explained what had happened.
Canon Humphrey said, “Poor Henry. God rest his soul.” They walked back to where Bracher was standing, undecided what to do next.
Canon Humphrey said, “I don’t think I should disturb him now, Superintendent. Anything that has to be said can be better said in the morning.”
Twenty-one
“I set more store on evidence than on confessions,” said Bracher. “That’s why I’ve asked you, Mr Dean, to show me what is in that letter and you, Doctor, to explain what it was you said to Brookes yesterday evening that induced him to take his own life.”
It was ten o’clock on the following morning and they were sitting in the Dean’s study. The rain had stopped and a pale sun was peering ineffectively through the mist which had followed the downpour.
The Dean said, “The letter names other people. It may call for action against them.”
“We can make our minds up about that when we know what’s in it.”
Still the Dean hesitated. Then he said, “I’m not going to hand it over to you. But I’ll read you the bits that matter.”
Bracher looked as though he would have liked to protest, but evidently decided to accept half a loaf, for the time being.
The Dean seemed to be skipping the opening sentences. Then he read out:
“’Two years ago, I was presented with a chance of making a substantial amount of money. It came at a time when my business had failed. I had sold out to Gloag for a sum which just allowed me to pay off my business liabilities, but I was embarrassed by a number of small personal loans and debts to tradesmen. Coming at the moment it did, when I’d been offered the post of Chapter Clerk, it seemed providential. I could pay everyone off, have something in hand and start with a clean sheet. The offer, as you will have guessed, came from Gloag and his backers in the supermarket deal, Sandeman, Driffield and Grant Adey. They realised I would guess what they were up to and, unless they took me in, I’d warn off Mrs Henn-Christie. The difficulty was that the opening stake for the five of us was £2,000 each and I simply hadn’t got it. I decided to borrow the money for a few months from the Fabric Fund, which was normally under my control. I reckoned that Archdeacon Henn-Christie would never have noticed the in and out payment, particularly when the money had been restored – as it was three months later. I was equally certain that Archdeacon Pawle would notice it and question it. I had a breathing space, because his attention was first devoted to the Cathedral trusts and the school and college accounts. But my turn was coming. It wasn’t pleasant waiting for the blow to fall. I was uncomfortable for another reason. Gloag and Sandeman knew I was hard up and I think they suspected where the £2,000 had come from. So I had to keep in with them. It wasn’t anything very important. Things like telling them, from time to time, what happened in Chapter.’”
The Dean put the letter down and said, “So he thought that a breach of professional confidence was a small matter.”
“Compared with embezzlement,” said Bracher, “surely it was.”
“Both were equal breaches of faith,” said the Dean. He picked up the letter.
“’I had read in some technical magazine about how you could distil nicotine from cigarettes and I had my brewing apparatus and the cigarettes. My Aunt Alice used to smoke them. She left a store of them in a cupboard in her bedroom. So it wasn’t a difficult operation, but I was horribly careless. Dr Scotland will tell you about that.’”
“Afterward,” said James. He saw that the Dean had reached the last page of the letter.
“’About a month ago I had a note from the Archdeacon asking me to make all my accounts and records available. I knew then that I had to act. The opportunity came at the Friends luncheon. I stationed myself at the far end of the serving table, took the first available cup of coffee, put in the nicotine and carried the cup to the Archdeacon.’”
It seemed to James that there was a passage at the end of the letter which the Dean read to himself. He saw his lips moving. Bracher noticed it, too. He said, “Can I see the letter? I won’t take it away.”
“No,” said the Dean. He had replaced the letter in the envelope and now put the envelope in his pocket. “The last bit was personal. Of no interest to anyone but myself.”
Bracher would have liked to argue, but decided against it. He said to James, “I’ll have to know what you told Brookes.”
“I told him,” said James slowly, “that a final analysis of the specimens which had been submitted to the laboratory had shown minute quantities of acetone, butyl alcohol, iso-propyl alcohol and butyric acid. That is the characteristic pattern of anaerobic fermentation. It meant that the nicotine had been distilled in an apparatus which had previously been used for making wine and brandy. The evidence had been preserved because the fermentation in the tissues was stopped by the samples being preserved in formaldehyde. Otherwise it would have disappeared.”
The Superintendent only understood part of this, but he recognised hard evidence when he saw it. He said, “And that was when you knew that Brookes was the guilty party.”
“I first suspected it when I remembered smelling menthol in the cupboard where his aunt’s things were stored. He’d destroyed the cigarettes, of course. But he’d not taken the trouble to banish the smell. He wasn’t a very careful criminal. If he had been, he wouldn’t have spent nine hundred pounds on a pair of famille rose bowls for his wife at a moment when he was supposed to be broke.”
�
��A guilt offering to his conscience,” said the Dean. He got up to indicate that the meeting was over.
Bracher followed him, but stopped when he reached the hall. He said, “There’ll have to be an inquest.”
“Of course.”
“And the Coroner will want to see both those letters.”
“I’ll think about it. In fact, if he insists, I think it would be better if I read the letter out myself.”
“Why?”
The Dean said, with a smile, “Because I wouldn’t want it to be edited. The Coroner might feel inclined to leave out the names of the supermarket gang. If it brings that mean little swindle into the open, some good at least will have come of this horrible affair.”
The Superintendent grunted and moved toward the front door. The Dean opened it to let him out. When James would have followed, he stopped him. He said, “I think my daughter wants a word with you. She’s in the dining room. She’s a bit upset. You must do what you can.”
James went into the dining room with a sinking heart. His worst fears were more than realised. Amanda was on her feet. Her face was white. She said, before he had taken three steps into the room, “Why the hell couldn’t you stop when I told you to? Why did you have to go on and on, meddling and interfering? Everything was just perfect. The police were lost. The only thing they could think of was arresting Daddy. Which was just what he wanted. They could never have held him. They’d simply have made fools of themselves. And then you—you had to play the clever little scientist and set them onto poor old Brookes.”
“Do I gather you’ve been eavesdropping again?”
“Certainly.”
“In that case,” said James, who was beginning to lose his temper as well, “you heard the truth about Brookes. The whole truth. How he not only killed the Archdeacon, in a particularly cruel and unpleasant way, but how he helped to swindle poor old Mrs Henn-Christie. He was meant to be acting as her adviser and he recommended her to take a twentieth of what he knew her land was worth. I find it more difficult to forgive him for that than for the murder.”
The Black Seraphim Page 23